


In-Hyeong

by platonicdust



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Eye Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Multi, No Dialogue, Recovery, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, does anyone even care about this game anymore?, examination of jihyuns mental state over the years, kind of, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:27:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicdust/pseuds/platonicdust
Summary: Jihyun comes around to visit without any sort of schedule. He’ll visit twice within the week, before staying away for months and returning again. Each time, he looks as though he’s expecting some sort of punishment for his absence, apologising profusely and excusing himself early – as though everyone present would be better without him. He seems to be stuck in the space in-between; some crevasse between understanding that those around him are just worried but afraid his mere presence is a hindrance.
Relationships: Han Jumin/V | Kim Jihyun, Rika/V | Kim Jihyun
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	In-Hyeong

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t posted for so long but I recently watched the 2002 film dolls which is pretty much responsible for the writing of this fic. I replayed mm a couple of months back and was absolutely crushed by Jihyun's route and the fact that some people still hate him. This was really just a way for me to outlet all my feelings about him and how much I wish a happy ending for him. The story as a whole is pretty bitter and pretentious, honestly, but I kinda had to write it.  
> Anyway, if you enjoy, I'd definitely recommend watching the film, it's by Takeshi Kitano and was heartbreaking but really well made.  
> Thanks for reading.

Jihyun comes around to visit without any sort of schedule. He’ll visit twice within the week, before staying away for months and returning again. Each time, he looks as though he’s expecting some sort of punishment for his absence, apologising profusely and excusing himself early – as though everyone present would be better without him. He seems to be stuck in the space in-between; some crevasse between understanding that those around him are just worried but afraid his mere presence is a hindrance.

He didn’t use to be like this, Jumin thinks; he used to be happy. He can remember in such vivid detail the tangents Jihyun would go on about the benefits of hedonism – how much he talked about the western philosophy of individualism. They would often walk in the park while Jihyun talked, struggling to keep his voice down and hands gesturing wildly at times. When Jumin asked why, Jihyun would respond with some flippant answer; _does there have to be a reason?_ Even after spending more and more time with his mother and less around the influence of his father; when Jihyun became the photographer everyone knew and the man who was kind for the sake of it, he seemed happy, more so, even. Jumin thinks that a lot, lately, that Jihyun is just a shell of who he used to be. And no one else in the RFA seems to notice, or care; too busy blaming him for what has become of Rika.

Jumin can’t help but compare Jihyun to how he was in the past and every time he does, he can’t find it in himself to blame Jihyun for what has happened. The only flaws he finds are good traits that have been warped and twisted beyond comprehension within the depths of Jihyun’s mind. He’s too kind, Jumin thinks; too selfless – deluded with the fantasy that he can save everyone because he desperately needs to feel wanted, to feel useful. And perhaps that’s where his unwavering devotion to stay by Rika comes from. That must be why he seems so adamant to keep himself in pain, to water himself down until he becomes a shadow, dull enough to not distract from Rika’s presence. So he stays behind her, always leaving a distance of two steps between them and keeping his eyes on her.

Jumin is the one who sees Jihyun like this. Jumin is the one who keeps old photographs of the two of them together, framed and on the walls of his penthouse. And when Jihyun visits, and Jumin sees him next to them, his gaze always chasing Rika, Jumin feels a well of pain in his heart, something akin to nothing he experienced before Jihyun told him he and Rika were engaged. He wishes he could take it all back; tear the ring off Jihyun’s finger and beg him not to marry her. Because a broken friendship would be better than a broken friend. Because if he knew Jihyun was happy, he could almost stand to be apart from him. But instead it feels as though his heart is breaking when he sees Jihyun’s blank face next to the photograph they took after they both graduated; eyes crinkled and smiles wide. They were ready to take on the world. He wants to ask anyone willing to listen, what happened to them?

His heart feels heavy whenever he wakes and although work gives a brief reprieve from that, he’s still confronted with the image of Jihyun walking through the door during his lunchbreaks, brandishing coffee and some variation of a salad. But they’re not friends anymore, at least, not really. Because Jihyun no longer has the capacity to be friends with anyone; his heart is still far too big than he can contain but every part of him, every crack and crevice, is filled up with Rika. And while Rika is barely a ghost, Jihyun’s eyes still flicker with some unfound depth of grief.

Jumin wants desperately to soothe him, to tell him it’s alright. But he finds himself waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and eyes straining, trying to find something invisible within the confounds of his room. He never does; instead he’s left with the sickening feeling that it’s his own selfishness that makes him want to help Jihyun. As much as he tries to trick himself into thinking his desire to help is based off their friendship, he can’t deny that it seems founded off the longing to fill the void that Rika once did. He wants to swallow Jihyun whole, just as Rika did and he weakly justifies that despite this craving, he would take better care of him. It fills him with some incomprehensible disgust every time magazine calls him altruistic, a generous philanthropist – because no one seems to see him for who he is. He’s scared that if someone peeled away his skin, picked apart at his muscles and bones, all they would find is a blackened heart.

When Jihyun visits, bringing Rika with him as he always does, she never greets Jumin. But she never says anything, blankly looking around the room as though it’s unfamiliar, despite having visited numerous times before. He feels as though he should feel some sense of loss when he looks at Rika, the memories both of them share briefly flashing by before he’s once again filled with disgust. He can’t help the part of him that blames her, for making Jihyun fall in love with her and seemingly discarding him. He wishes he could have been the one Jihyun fell for, the one who made him blush at the mere mention of his name. But there are too many impracticalities and obstructions that stopped that from happening and Jumin is not a brave man.

Rika never sits down until Jihyun directs her to the couch, softly pulling on her blouse, careful not to touch her skin. Jumin often wonders what it would be like to yell at the girl; to take her by the shoulders and just shake until she looks him in the eyes. But he doesn’t – because he keeps his emotion so deeply repressed it’s as though he doesn’t have them. He doesn’t do it because it would make Jihyun cry out as though Jumin kicked _him_ in the teeth. He doesn’t do it because he knows nothing would change. Jihyun has been trying for months, buying her every bouquet that capture her attention in an attempt to have her just look at him, if only once, in the eyes so she might see the cloudy film covering his eyes and ask him if he’s okay. Jumin sees that film – he sees the way bright lights make him flinch and cover his eyes. But nothing has made Rika react, and Jumin has the deep-set feeling that nothing will.

Rika stares, just to the left of whoever is trying to capture her attention. Most have given up on her, left with the same feeling Jumin has. They don’t use the messenger often anymore; it only become active, briefly, when someone tries to start a conversation about something they saw at the store, or a film they recently watched. After everything – after Rika stopped talking and Jihyun became a shell of who he was, they all talked about it, trying, desperately, to reach some conclusion that would help them understand. But they’ve all given up on her. Even Yoosung, after visiting her for the umpteenth time, just sits sadly in her presence. They no longer host parties; they barely talk to each other, trying to move on with their already shattered lives. Jumin thinks, he’s no different. But Jihyun stills holds onto her, rushing to her side whenever she mumbles something incoherent. It’s always the same sounds that she repeats, though Jumin remains unsure whether she’s speaking any words. She never seems to speak to anyone, simply making noises because her body can, exhaling them out to the air around her.

Jihyun wears the same look each time she does this, some mix between miserable and exhausted. Jumin is unsure how exactly he manages to stay on his feet – his frame looking far to thin to house everything. Rika is thin too, unhealthily so, but, Jumin thinks, she’s merely an empty husk; her body has nothing to house. Jihyun still has emotions, still feels far too much – Jumin is sure of that.

Jihyun presses his lips to her forehead, mumbling something back to her. They’re terms of endearment, declarations of love; Jumin always has to avert his eyes.

Despite never seeing him cry, Jihyun seems to have a permanent red ring around his eyes. Some days it looks worse than others, Jumin thinks, swollen, like they would hurt to the touch. His fingers are always twitching, looking for something to grasp onto – hands rubbing at his eyes until they become redder and sorer than before; rubbing at some unseen piece of bark or wood that has made its home under his cornea. But it never seems to matter to Jihyun. Jihyun whose vision is near dark anyway.

He always insists he can still see and while Jumin believes him, it doesn’t make it any easier to watch him trip and stumble, hands outstretched while Rika walks slowly ahead. It’s as if she can’t see the torment that appears to plague Jihyun, and perhaps, Jumin thinks, he’s envious that she doesn’t have to watch. Jumin has to, with sharp eyes; he’s scared if he stops looking, he’ll find a way to get over it all – to be happy. He’s not sure he could live with himself if he moved on while Jihyun was still lost in the dark. Instead, he thinks to himself that he wouldn’t mind going blind, if that was the way it was to happen – slowly, beside someone he loved. He thinks he understands Jihyun in some sick way.

Jumin convinces them to go out, sometimes, leaving the security of his penthouse behind. They’ll get ice-cream, or sit beside the lake, or see a film, though none of them are watching. But sometimes Rika will walk off, before Jihyun or Jumin can notice. Its’s the only time Jihyun will let the emotions rush across his face in quick succession, before settling on one of agony and unadulterated misery. This time, as they look back to Rika after turning their heads to the sky, watching as three doves fly over the sparse trees in the park, she isn’t there. Jumin wills himself not to sigh and instead dutifully follows Jihyun as they attempt to find her. He thinks maybe he’s as pathetic as the rest of the RFA see Jihyun – following the person he loves despite the clear wretchedness it produces.

He likes to think of himself that way, even though Hyun mocks him for the silver spoon he was born with. He wishes he and Jihyun were Romeo and Juliet – that they had a written ending and all they had to do was follow it. He wishes they could be known as the greatest romantic tragedy, that the two of them could be together even if it was in death. If he’s more selfish, he’ll see the two of them as Achilles and Patroclus: their love creating stories fit for the gods – that their ashes could be kept together through time.

These thoughts make him sick, that feeling of nausea growing until it fills his whole stomach. It’s hard to look at Jihyun, after having the fantasies, though he can’t help but chase him. He thinks he understands Rika, for that one single aspect; Jihyun is the sun, no matter how much he tries to dim himself. No one else seems to understand that one fact, that the light from a flame can’t survive if it’s suffocated; Jihyun was made to be bright and kind and throw smiles around to everyone. He’s killing himself; his heart and mind and body only containing room for Rika. So Jumin has to become a vessel for Jihyun, and that way, he hopes, Jihyun won’t burn out.

They find her, as they always do, passing her hand through the water and crying because she can’t catch it. The water goes right through her fingers as onlooker stare and point and whisper. Jihyun rushes over, leaving Jumin standing where he was. Now he’s an onlooker, just one face in the crowd of grotesque people. He feels bile rise to his throat, but his feet don’t comply with what he wants. They stay stuck on the ground as the crowd around him murmurs about the tragic sight in front of them, throwing pity or annoyance or whatever suits them because they can leave. They can go back to their homes and tell their partners about the strange sight they saw today but Jumin can’t. Even after Jihyun coaxes Rika out of the fountain, the bottom of her dress damp with moisture, Jumin stays, back straight as a board while the crowd around him disperses.

Jihyun carefully puts his arm around her waist, walking slowly off in the opposite direction. He doesn’t look back but Jumin can’t tear his gaze away.

* * *

Jihyun tries to take Rika out of their apartment at least once a day. Although it’s still their apartment in name, Rika has such a weak presence it barely feels like she lives there. All her trinkets are there; various photographs of the two of them pinned to the wall, Rika’s small trophy she was presented with after their first party. But it all feels like it belongs to someone else because Rika is no longer that person.

He hates the way he thinks of her now, like a bird in a cage, but Rika doesn’t leave the house without someone gently directing her to the door. So he stands behind her, whispering what he thinks are comforting words. Jihyun likes to think she finds his presence comforting, that some small part of her still remembers him and who he was to her. But he always comes to the same, sad conclusion; it doesn’t matter who takes care of her. He’s seen Yoosung take her by the arm, guiding her out and talking vividly about the birds and she reacts in the same way, smiling gently but not directing it towards anyone.

Jihyun wishes he could turn back time, to be the subject of her attention once again. Even when she was hurting him, lashing out and yelling cruel, malicious words – that was better than her searching gaze that never lands on him.

So, when they go out today, and Jihyun drives them both to the rural town Rika used to love, they pass the same children whom Rika would entertain with stories. She doesn’t look at them, this time, but they still rush out and grab the hem of her dress when they see her hair trailing behind in the wind; it looks gold in the summer sun. Rika smiles when the children start laughing but Jihyun knows it’s not because of them – she’s looking ahead, at a wheat field that looks as yellow as her hair. She keeps walking, leaving Jihyun to tell the children to go back, trying not to flinch when a couple of them start crying. And when Jihyun looks back, and sees Rika standing in the field, it looks like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be, as though their whole life together was to lead to this; Rika soaking in the sun like she’s about to disappear and Jihyun watching from afar.

She used to call him her sun, but he knows better, now – he knows she’s the one who was made for the light to wash over her. These are the only times Jihyun misses his eyes, the way they would analyse and focus on every part of her body, grabbing his camera to shoot the aura that always surrounded her. _Shoot_. It’s too grotesque of a word to put in the same sentence as her.

All Jihyun ever wanted was to protect her – to save her from being marred and corrupted by everything that so desperately tried to do so. He feels another wave of guilt crash over him – a feeling of incompetence so strong he feels himself want to weep. He doesn’t, of course, not wanting to alarm Rika, though she would probably smile at the thought. She’s cruel, Jihyun thinks she always has been, but that was her right. She deserved everything the world had to give her but Jihyun couldn’t provide any of it.

He thinks the sun must see the same thing he does, staring at Rika looking up at the sky, because it, too, bathes her in affection, its warm rays caressing each curve and angle of her arms and torso and legs. The glow surrounding her looks golden – a holy light. He can’t help but think that word fits her better than any other could; ethereal, iridescent, celestial – none of them seem right. But holy, it seems like a word created for her. Jihyun thinks he could worship her like a goddess, the way that word seems to slip and roll of his tongue when he speaks to her, filling up his mind when he thinks of her. And when she lays down, turning her head so as to be caressed by the wheat, Jihyun follows, leaving an inch between them.

They stay the night there, neither having the energy to leave. As the summer air cools but stays humid, he can hear Rika shivering quietly against him, skin never touching.

Jihyun doesn’t touch her anymore. Sometimes, when she seems more despondent that usual, he’ll grab some of the red embroidery that gathers dust in the sewing tin they never use; he’ll tie it around her wrist, ever so gently, taking care not to let their skin make contact. He ties the other end around his own and it gives him some semblance that they’re connected, despite the ever-growing distant between them.

In his nightmares, he’s some gnarled monster, one who’s trapped Rika in a cage and surrounded her lithe body in bindings. He always wakes up sweating and when he opens his bleary eyes, he can see Rika by the window or sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. She never appears sad or crying, only ever blankly looking at what’s in front of her. And Jihyun will stare until his eyes grow too heavy to keep open. Because whatever he’s lost, he still finds he desperately needs sleep – craves it – because he needs a reprieve from the guilt that crushes him while he’s awake.

They’ll spend hours walking, tied together by string around their wrists. Every time Jihyun moves his arm, Rika’s follows, lifting instinctively and Jihyun finds he no longer cares about the staring. Everything has already been taken from him; his only purpose is Rika and he briefly wonders, from time to time, when he became so worthlessly devoted to her. But it’s not her fault, it never was nor will it ever be – even after he goes blind and his body deteriorates, seeping into the ground. Rika was the only thing that gave his life purpose, a reason.

Except, that’s not right because he can remember his mother, smiling at him in that way only mothers can, despite the way he treated her. And he can remember Jumin, talking to him when the pressure in his chest felt so constricted it was if he were an oxygen tank about to burst; Jumin would tell him, in that same, ridiculous monotonous voice he still uses now that they would get through it, somehow.

He sometimes allows himself to think about how different his life could’ve been if he never moved away for college, if he and Jumin continued seeing each other every day. He’s not incompetent in his perception, he can see how Jumin used to look at him; for some reason, he still looks at Jihyun like that. Jihyun would be surprised if he didn’t feel so uselessly pusillanimous. He’s always been a coward, and perhaps that is why he so futilely clung to Rika, trying to cage her so he could have some, easy direction in life. If he devoted himself to her, what use would there be to think about earning a living? What was more romantic, more of an act of consecration, than dedicating one’s whole life to another person?

Neither of them do much more than moving and walking, without a destination ever on their minds. Jihyun knows: they merely exist, breathing the same air as one another – an unbelievably intimate deed. So they live off Jihyun’s money, though Rika wouldn’t know. Perhaps she doesn’t care, he’ll think to himself later, as he’s about to fall asleep. But it doesn’t matter, not really, because Jihyun knows now that even if he wasn’t made to take care of Rika, that’s the only way he can attempt to atone for living. He doesn’t think he was made to be alive. Sometimes, though he would never tell anyone even if he had someone who would listen, he finds himself growing envious of Rika – she seems so at peace, now, in a way she never was before. If he had no thoughts, perhaps he wouldn’t have to feel the ever-lingering torment: a world of nothingness, how nice that would be.

The money won’t last forever, he knows; it was made from old, and long forgotten photographs that seem to have been taken by an entirely different person, and Jihyun wonders just how much it’s possible for a single person to change. So, they’ll last a few years with the money they have, especially considering their modest living arrangements. But he doesn’t worry, there’s no need to when Jihyun is so sure neither of them will last long that it seems entrenched beneath his skin and ingrained in his bones. He doesn’t voice this to Jumin – he wishes the man would just forget him. If Jihyun dies, dissolving back into the earth that birthed him, he wished he would leave no print, that he and Rika could go, quietly, into the night and leave no causalities, no memories that have gone rotten with age.

He pictures Jumin, his only friend who has seen every person Jihyun was and has become; he pictures that stoic man with the dark hair and affinity for cats. He wishes he could tear out and uproot every memory they share because then, and only then, would he feel wholly confident dissolving into nothingness. Into a quiet void, he thinks, wouldn’t be a bad way to die – surrounded by a damp darkness that envelops him.

He hasn’t been held for so long; he craves it like a starving man does food.

He often wishes he could live out the rest of his short days simply, walking for the sake of it with Rika. He thinks he wouldn’t mind going blind for her if only his last image was of her, staring happily towards the sun. That way, her face would be ingrained on the inside of his eyelids forever. If the rest of his numbered days could consist purely of watching Rika, even if it was from afar – Rika’s golden hair glistening in the sun’s rays, looking at her gently caressing the petals of roses through his lashes – then he’s sure he could transcend. He’s not sure where to or how, only that it would undoubtedly be possible.

There’s a place in his mind he dreams of every so often, but it’s a place far too beautiful for him; he thinks he doesn’t deserve to see somewhere so serene, even at night. He wishes Rika could leave such a pathetic mess like him and go there herself, shedding everything she’s become and converting into the saint he knows she was meant to be. A saint that scorned her life, how fitting that was for her. Perhaps that’s why she’s become such a docile, blank slate; she’s far too pure to live in such a stained world.

He can see it, the way she views the world – edges stained black and decaying. If only he could help her transcend, except, he’s the one that placed her where she lies now, on the damp earth, encrusted in mud.

Often, when he looks at the red string tied between them, he can pretend they’re bound by some sort of fate. And although the idea is romantic, it’s also quixotic; he knows they would both have far less wounds if one of them cut it. But Rika finally seems as though she’s found the contentment she spent her life looking for and Jihyun’s always been trepidatious, too apprehensive to do anything first; he’s a selfish man, he knows. It gets tiring, the cycle he and Rika go through: to himself, to Jumin and all those around him – they’ve gotten sick of his excuses and ever-present self-loathing.

Every time he doesn’t answer a question, he sees the looks they give each other, like they were expecting that response but are disappointed anyway. He used to hate that look; it made him want to spill his guts, take the heart out of his chest and let them pry it open until they found what they wanted. It still hits him sometimes, that desperation to let them look inside his brain, pick it apart, and rid him of these thoughts. Or perhaps they could rid him of all thought – mess around until the wires that make up his brain are twisted and teared. That way, his body could keep on living, existing beside Rika; eating, breathing, sleeping, without the consequence that thought brings.

But he knows it’s selfish to wish. Because it’s fine so long as they see Rika the way he does – so that their image of her stays pristine, clean; unmarred.

Rika is calm and still beside him, it’s as if she isn’t even breathing. But she is, because Jihyun knows she would never abandon him like he did her; because she’s a better person than he ever was. Jihyun wants to be elevated. He wants to reach that level of thoughtlessness that has captured Rika and won’t loosen its grip. He thinks if he were the same, perhaps Rika would finally look him in the eyes. But then it wouldn’t matter. Because neither of them would need anything from the other except for the steady, comforting presence of another person.

Jihyun has never feared loneliness; he always liked to be in the company of himself where others wouldn’t attempt such vain flattery, telling him how becoming he was. But when he thinks, draws back through his memories and picks them apart one by one, he has never experienced loneliness. Not even when his mother dies and all he had was a father who barely glanced his way. Not until the moment Rika became listless and despondent. Because now, he thinks, having someone by his side, someone who looks through him like glass is worse than having no one at all.

So, she doesn’t look at him, anymore, but she doesn’t look at anyone, not really. Jihyun remembers reading that the difference between humans and animals is that people have consciousness and free thought. But he wonders, while looking at Rika, if that’s entirely true. And he wonders if animals have it better for that reason; they don’t have to put meaning to what they see or deal with fickle conversation. If their brains work anything like Rika’s now does, he thinks it must be a content life. Rika smiles when she sees flowers or clouds that resemble animals in the sky; but she doesn’t look at Jihyun and tell him she loves or hates him – doesn’t take Yoosung by the shoulder and tell him she’s proud of him.

But Jihyun’s come to understand that it’s just her body’s response to beautiful things. She doesn’t smile because there’s some hidden meaning behind them, just that their combination of colour, smell, and appearance strikes something in her brain that makes her lips twitch upwards.

More often than not, Jihyun finds Rika gazing wistfully out the window. She’s still wearing her night-dress, eyes tired and worn – her hair, unbrushed. But none of that matters to either of them. Jihyun’s not sure how much Rika fully comprehends anymore, and he certainly doesn’t care. She’s beautiful – she always has been and Jihyun knows she will be until the day he dies. Even if the dark circles below her eyes only grow more apparent and become more of a mottled purple. Even if she stops wearing whimsical smiles and the scratches she makes on her arm grow longer and bloodier.

She will always be beautiful. Jihyun doesn’t think he could ever bear to think of her any other way.

After he wakes up, most mornings, she’ll be sitting by the door, sitting on her feet or atop the bench by the window, sunlight streaming through the thin glass. He thinks it a curious thing, that such a thin, delicate barrier could block out so much.

He’s still not sure just how much she sleeps but in the morning, when everything is painted golden, she looks straight out of a painting. It takes his breath away every time.

As much as he used to try and shed his practical side, live in the moment, as Rika used to beg him to, he never found a way to do that. It made him feel like he was lying – lying to everyone about who he was. Because as much as he didn’t want to, Jihyun worried; it was as though that was his personality, asking questions to which he didn’t know the answer: had he spent enough time with everyone this week or would they say he isolated himself too much, that they didn’t feel he cared about them? And would the patrons stand next to him and lie through their teeth about finding some deeper meaning in his photography when they saw nothing more than a pretty landscape?

He hated that word, _pretty_. He could think of a thousand other words, listing them off when he felt that apprehension boil up inside. _Beautiful, gorgeous, stunning, breathtaking, charming_. By the time he made it to the tenth, someone would usually appear by his side to calm him down. Later, it was usually Rika but at first, when he only just started getting offers from near-by galleries, it was always Jumin: a steady, grounding presence who would lightly press his hand to the small of Jihyun’s back and take over the conversation. He misses that. He misses Jumin’s company – not as it is now, stilted and awkward, neither of them wanting to say something wrong or something real. But more than that, he thinks, he misses the outlook he used to possess, that feeling of new naivety where he still felt as though he could mould the world to fit him in it.

So even now, in spite of the circumstances he’s found himself in, he still tries desperately to search his brain for that rationality. He goes grocery shopping every week, cooks elegant meals though the both of them can barely taste it. It doesn’t matter what he serves to Rika, she merely takes a few bites before turning her body towards the window, face blank.

Everything tastes the same to Jihyun now, all the food turning to ash in his mouth, tongue hanging heavy in his mouth with nowhere for it to comfortably sit. Sometimes, their friends will bring something by, a nice bottle of wine or selection of cheeses. Jihyun accepts, politely, but when the door closes, he can’t help crying because it’s always the same expensive brands. Because it’s being wasted on him.

But he still eats; his body needs it to survive, he knows. And although Rika’s getting painfully thin, he ensures she eats enough to keep breathing. Sometimes it just helps to go through the motions, like they used to; he’ll wash the bed sheets each week and remember to pay rent every fortnight. Those actions are so ingrained into him that he continues, despite it all, waiting with a quiet ferocity for her to return to the way she was.

It’s a self-serving thought, he thinks: he knows. He has no right to ask Rika to return to who she was when they met because he’s no longer that same man. Because it’s his fault she stares so blankly at everything and everyone except flowers and the sky. It’s greedy to think; she looks so happy when she’s left alone to stare up at the sun, shoulders far more relaxed than they ever used to be. 

Sometimes, when Jihyun nudges a plate of food her way, she’ll just stare at it blankly – as though it’s some foreign object she doesn’t understand – before turning back to look at the setting sun. Jihyun thinks of her as some sort of plant: alive but without conscious thought. She’s simply alive, always turning to face the sun – like a plant looking for nutrients. And Jihyun thinks it a good comparison because he needs her in order to breath, at least he’s convinced himself of that fact. He’s sure Rika doesn’t need him to live but he desperately clings to her; a miserably co-dependent relationship that he can’t seem to break free of.

He’s not sure, anymore, if he wants to.

And despite the fact that Rika is no longer the same girl – although she can no longer voice her thoughts, Jihyun selfishly believes he knows what she’s thinking in that dark crevasse of her mind, that part not even she is aware of. It’s a terribly conceited thought but he can’t help thinking that if not him, who else would know her better? And so, it has to be him.

Her head is usually blank, and for that reason, the cloudless skies are her favourite. She used to love the clouds, the way she could make living things from floating gas and atoms. But she doesn’t think that anymore, Jihyun is sure. Now the clouds just obstruct her view of the sun.

The both of them are the same: living, breathing organism, so closely moulded together that they share some of the same thoughts. He’s convinced himself that they are the special ones, that they share some bond between them no one else experiences - that they’re not just two, broken people, clutching the last of their humanity through open hands.

And when Jihyun was young, there was a bushfire not far from his house. It wasn’t close enough for them to evacuate but Jihyun had to spend close to a week inside before the fire was contained and put out enough for the sky to start returning to its natural colour. Every time he would look out the window, he was met with a grey sky and the smoke was so thick that not even the sun could seem to penetrate through it. So he was stuck, inside, with only the maids to talk to and not even a sliver of sunlight streaming through the window that could save him from the miserable air encompassing the house. Jihyun thought it utterly miserable that a star so close and bright, a star that warmed the Earth every day without fail, could be shut out by that thick blanket of smoke.

He snuck out through the back door and into the courtyard on the third day, already pushed to the brink of boredom. Despite its impressive size, the house felt suffocating to spend too long at once in, never failing to make him feel small beyond belief. When he made it outside, he realised why his father had told him to stay inside, why the maids apologised but refused to take him to the pond. The smoke was dense, filling up his lungs with every breath he took and sticking to the roof of his mouth like red bean paste.

But the worst part was when the smoke made contact with his eyes and a burning feeling would erupt. Despite that, it seemed worse when he closed them, as though he was shutting the smoke behind his eyelids with nowhere for it to disperse. His father used to read a particular scientific journal during breakfast, mumbling under his breath. And although Jihyun struggled to understand most of the words, he remembers hearing that looking directly up at the sky aided against the intense pain caused by direct contact with smoke. But when he did, he was merely met with a grey sky and the sight of it caused his already damp eyes to start dripping tears.

He was young, eight at most, and burst into his father’s office without knocking. He can still feel the wet tears rolling in thin streams down his face as he asked his father if the sun would ever come back. He simply sighed, in response, waving Jihyun away. Unsatisfied, he asked the maid who came to collect him the same question. She smiled, in that way adults do when find a child’s question amusing and patiently told him the story of the woman who put the sun back in the sky.

The sun became deeply depressed, she said, and in his sadness, he felt unable to continue lighting up the sky every day. If he couldn’t be happy, how could he make other’s world brighter? The people on Earth became panicked and the world was thrust into chaos. People became ruthless and forgot all the kindness the sun had taught them. Although many people begged for the sun to come back, promises of worship slipping off their tongues, the sun refused to show himself. But one day, a simple woman came across a blond man who radiated like the sun, hunched over and crying. She asked him, as she would have with any other person, if he was alright. The sun explained his situation and in response, she asked if there was anything she could do to help ease his burden. After that day the woman would paint the sunrise and sunset, telling the sun when to rise and sleep. In return, the sun returned to his place in the sky, promising to never disappear again.

Jihyun found out, not long after, that the people on Earth couldn’t survive without the sun; the story the maid told him was merely a fable. He didn’t fully understand what it meant at the time, but he recalls it often, now. And although upon meeting Rika he became convinced she saved him, like the woman in the story, he thinks now that it was Jumin who picked up his burdens and painted the sky. He doesn’t want to do that anymore; he doesn’t want to be a burden, least of all to Jumin.

He’s come too far to escape in one piece.

So, he still remembers the story now, recalling it when he least means to. He remembers the way he cried with stinging eyes when Rika threw those chemicals at his face, an intense burning sensation seemingly melting through his eyes. She was talking wildly about how much light he radiated – that he was too bright, and she had no choice but to blind him like he blinded her. He doesn’t blame her though. He can’t.

He hasn’t told anyone the real story, instead citing a genetic defect that runs on his mother’s side of the family. But despite it all, he doesn’t wish for his eyes to be treated. Even when Jumin comes to him with pamphlets and the contact details for the best doctors he knows. Even when Jumin came to him, broken, one night, desperately begging him to get help. The could go back to the days before all this happened, he had told Jihyun, though they both knew it impossible. Something broke in Jumin, that day; it was the first time he had seen the man he grew up with weep, voice hitching and eyes as red as his own.

But Jihyun had always been weak, so he turned Jumin away, focusing his thoughts back to Rika. Because if he dwelled too much on what Jumin promised him – a second chance – he would take it. But he couldn’t do that; he had sins to atone for.

Jihyun’s vision has finally gone dark. The last scene he sees is that of Rika looking up at the sun and smiling, wind blowing her hair gently behind her. It’s imprinted on his brain, etched into it like a woodblock carving.

He’s fine, he rationalises, because he can still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin and when he closes his eyes, it’s her he sees on the inside of his eyelids.

* * *

Jumin doesn’t go to Rika’s funeral. He can’t stand the thought of looking at her calm, serene face. Yoosung insisted on an open casket ceremony and while Jihyun said he was going – to say one last goodbye – Jumin can’t bring himself to attend. It’s the only time he’s leaving Jihyun’s side for the past week and although he tries to will himself to go – to be the rational and level-headed support he’s sure they all need – his stomach twists at the thought. Some part of him still loves Rika, though she doesn’t have that hold on him she still does with Jihyun.

Jumin spends hours begging Jihyun to tell him what really happened because he can’t stand by and watch his best friend, his only friend, stuck in a well of misery. Because he loves him and Jumin doesn’t think that will ever change. He wants to be soft, as soft as Rika was; to be able to take Jihyun’s hand and heal him, somehow. But he doesn’t know if that can happen, not after the years and years Jihyun has spent hating himself to the verge of wanting to die. Jumin knows he can’t fix Jihyun because no one can, not really. They can all surround him with support, try and build up the scaffolding around him until he finds his feet, but Jumin knows none of that matters if Jihyun isn’t willing to try. He can see it, in his eyes – there’s no light in them, nothing bright about the aqua that Jumin once swore held the summer sea within them; merely a milky film covering his corneas.

Every part of him is gaunt and sickly from his skin to his hair; from his clothes to his voice. He barely seems like he’s alive. Except he still wakes up, despite no longer having a reason, Jumin thinks. He stills walks around the house – making quiet noises as he pushes the chair in – even if he seems like a ghost. It makes his chest clench when he sees Jihyun so spaced out, struggling to give Jumin a strained smile when he pushes a plate of food in front of him.

But Jumin has to remind himself that any alternative is better than him being in the ground with Rika. Anything is better than having to see Rika’s face every time he goes to visit Jihyun’s grave. Even if Jihyun can barely stand living without her, Jumin is selfish enough to relish having him around, again, even if it’s just his shell.

As much as he hates himself for not doing something sooner, for not fixing everything, he knows it doesn’t help Jihyun in the slightest to dwell on it. So he makes himself stand up straight, continuing to go to work because he knows Jihyun hates feeling like a burden. And when Jumin cries – because he finds himself doing that far more often lately – he does so in the shower, where the stream of water coming down on his back will hide the noise. If Jihyun ever notices the shake in Jumin’s voice when he comes out, he doesn’t say anything.

They try and get some of their old rhythm back, before they separated for college and before Jihyun met Rika. They’ll sit on the couch, some film on in the background projecting light onto their bodies. But Jihyun can’t see anymore, only able to make out blocks of colours, and Jumin only ever looks at Jihyun. He knows Jihyun must sense his gaze, but he can never seem to tear his eyes away.

It’s not the same, they both know. Too much has happened, or maybe not enough happened. There are secrets that seem to infest the house, sticking to every wall and surface. Secrets they both know without speaking the words, and memories that plague them, reminding them of better days. But Jumin can’t leave because without his penthouse and money, he has nothing to offer Jihyun. And he needs Jihyun by his side, finally. It’s a bitter thought because Jihyun seems as though he would be fine without Jumin, content to merely follow Rika to the grave. But Jumin needs Jihyun, more than he could know. Or perhaps he does know. Perhaps that’s why Jihyun stays.

Jumin’s never been in a relationship, not a real one. He was never interested in women, even the ones who smiled brightly at him and told him it was okay to cry; even Rika, though he tried desperately to feel something other than friendship for her. It was always Jihyun, as far back as he can remember and, sometimes, he would look at the boys in his class or the sons who visited the company in a similar, but vastly different way, before that feeling of guilt would wash back over him, knocking the breath out of him like a wave. He was the president of Han Corporation; he was the only son – the one who needed to get married or at the very least, not cause some scandal because he slept with a man.

Because he always rationalised that his career and his reputation weren’t worth losing.

He thinks he should count himself lucky that Jihyun never returned his feelings because he’s sure he would’ve dropped everything for the man; his fame, his fortune, his whole life. Because that’s what Jihyun is worth. And Jumin’s never been happy but that’s fine, he thinks, because he just needs to have enough reason to continue living. And if there’s some deep longing in his chest when a man his age smiles kindly at him like Jihyun used to, he tries not to think about it. He doesn’t need to be happy, he just needs to be alive. That’s how he’s lived for years, now; he knows how to pretend and how to fill that hole in his chest with more and more work.

Though he’s not quite sure what being alive means anymore, not after seeing how Jihyun and Rika have lived for the past year. Because they were alive, weren’t they? But not really. They were breathing, not living, and Jumin wonders if he’s the same, just a little more alert. Perhaps most people just walked through life in a daze. Perhaps most people weren’t happy or satisfied but merely going through the motions, every day, until they made their way six-feet-under.

When Jihyun comes back from the funeral, he’s soaked through, long hair stuck against his face and neck in thick clumps. His eyes are red but Jumin’s not sure if it’s from the crying or the injury. He’s still not even sure of the full story. Jihyun tells him in titbits, small pieces of information that he’ll allude to over a meal, or when he’s gasping out words during a panic attack.

He never used to have a problem with anxiety, Jumin thinks, no more than anyone else. But Jihyun hasn’t just changed; he’s a different person, both in body and mind. Jumin finds himself often surprised at something Jihyun says or does because it’s not something he would have ever done before. Jumin’s still trying to understand who Jihyun is now and it’s hard because he was always the one who knew Jihyun best. They’re not the same anymore and Jumin doesn’t think they’ll ever be anything similar again.

But regardless, he tries, desperately, to figure Jihyun out, to learn his new quips and what makes him frustrated. He finds himself wanting to figure Jihyun out all over again, as he did when they first met as children and the thought gives him some small sliver of hope.

Jumin grabs a towel from the shelf, motioning for Jihyun to sit on the couch. He does and Jumin starts slowly rubbing the towel through Jihyun’s hair, ensuring he’s as gentle as his hands can manage.

Saeyoung calls. Jumin picks up. He can hear crying in the background and Saeyoung explains with a tight, strained voice that Yoosung’s staying with him for the time being. Jumin nods, before realising Saeyoung can’t see him and forces out an affirmation. The line stays quiet, aside from the muffled crying before Saeyoung speaks again. He tells Jumin they should try and communicate with each other, especially at such a trying time. He says the offer extends to Jihyun and Jumin feels the shoulders beneath his hand turn stiff.

Neither of them talk about it after Jumin ends the calls. The apartment is quiet, save from the rustling of the towel and the busy streets outside.

It’s one evening on the couch, both of them sitting with a respectable amount of space between them. Jumin tries not to get too close; he’s been repressing everything for so long, he doesn’t know how to stop and Jihyun flinches every time someone touches him. They’re both far too scared of physical contact, though Jumin knows it’s for a vastly different reason.

Jihyun whispers something. And at first, Jumin thinks he isn’t quite meant to hear but then Jihyun looks over at him, milky-white eyes not quite making contact with his own. He repeats it again, voice raw and cracking. He repeats it, still whispering and every emotion that dances across his face in those few moments looks so delicate on his face. Like he’s about to crack, Jumin thinks, as though he hasn’t thought that everyday since they started living together. He repeats it and it’s the first time Jumin can’t help himself from crumbling in front of Jihyun, face contorting and gasping as he starts crying.

“I wish I saw you, instead. But I can’t get rid of her.”


End file.
